It takes some effort, with you and Brett working together, to drag the carcass of the smaller pterosaur out of the way of the Land Rover so that you'll be able to drive off. The dead flier must be a couple hundred pounds, and those floppy leatherlike wings are cumbersome to maneuver.
While you do so, you say, "Today has given me a lot to sort through. It isn't like I'm at a zoo where I can safely admire the sheer size of those fliers. I…wasn't at all prepared for their strength and speed, or their cunning, their unpredictability."
"Plus their incredible reach. Shooting them is a whole different ballgame than that rattler last year."
"I think you're right," you say.
Last year, you had been pretty calm and composed as you took aim at the rattlesnake. Today was different. You can take a little comfort from the fact that your closest friend understands how you feel.
Next, you commence a more careful inspection of your vehicle. Thankfully, nothing looks damaged.
"Hmm," says Brett, eyeing branches and detritus heaped in an arcing mound surrounding the area. "I get it. The Way Way Wayback Machine landed in the middle of their nest."
You look around more closely and realize your best friend is right. The nest is ridiculous, almost as big as your friend's small apartment. Well, that makes sense, as the larger flier must have been twice your height, with a twenty-foot wingspan. A dozen yards from the nest, a shallow stream feeds the lake. The shoreline is passable for some way. Tall pines march up the hillside. A breeze brings the crisp, woodsy scent of the forest to your nostrils, which is a refreshing change from the odor of the nest. The sun shines high over the lake, turning its waters silver. Though you left at midnight, the laws of temporal physics require you to arrive at midday.
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